The Quick and the Dead

[Sal Katarn]

A man stepped out of the Blue Moon club and onto the streets of Corellia. He ran a hand through locks of unkempt hair, sandy brown shot through with streaks of dusky gold. Sal Katarn blew out his cheeks. Another near death experience, but any experience with a Force witch tended to end that way.

Close-lipped, he tongued a canine. Best get back to the ship before the thirst set in.

Most of the crowd had dispersed, leaving the street almost empty except for those clustered around the Blue Moon's entrance. After the Breaking, few still lived on Corellia. They talked in hurried whispers, a hive of bees frightened by the bears still inside. Sal's sensitive hearing picked up snippets of conversation.

"Did you see that-"

"-Herglic-"

"-with a freaking shotgun."

"-Force user."

Katarn grunted. Pretty much his thoughts exactly. He kept walking. No reason to stick around. A thoroughly blown op. Simple missions like these rarely tended to go as planned. Keeping tabs on the Techno Union agent sounded easy enough, but this was Corellia.

It'd been years since his days in CorSec, but Sal knew from experience: you can take the Corellian out of a fight, but you cannot take the fight out of a Corellian.

As he walked through the streets, on his way back to the Outremer, he spotted a girl a long ways ahead of him. Katarn wouldn't have thought twice about her until an Aqualish stepped out of a shadowy alcove and stuck a blaster pistol up in her face.

Sal froze.

The words of the Aqualish drifted to Sal's ears, slightly muffled by the two tusks curving over his mouth.

"Far enough, Malora. Wermo, I've been waiting for this moment for a long time. Had to track you across three systems. But for 80 million? Worth it. Kriffin gotcha now."

[member="Eryn"]

 

[Eryn]

Immediately primed for action and rolling through the usual response options in her head, Eryn removed her hands from her pockets and held the hunter's triumphant gaze firmly as she loosened the knife under her jacket sleeve.

With the drama back in the strip club, she should've figured the night would end with blood one way or another.

Usually, she was more careful, avoiding the streets and using alleys and rooftops, but the crowds leaving the club hadn't given her much choice. It was roll with the flow or be trampled. She'd spotted a way up to the roofs ahead, a map of pipes and broken duracrete that would allow her to climb. 'course, now the hunter was in the way. If she'd seen him before, she didn't remember, although all Aqualish looked alike to her.

It always came down to two things: Did they have backup, and what kind of armor or shielding were they wearing? Talkers and gloaters were generally easier to deal with. It was the ones that shot first and asked questions later that were bigger problems. In her experience, very few bounty hunters traveled together; why split the creds when you can have it all? But sometimes they had sidekicks or outside help, hunter-to-be hopefuls working for a measly payout and some shared glory. Groups were a problem for her, and based on the increased number of one vs three or four she'd been encountering the last few months, word was probably spreading. Besides, eighty million was big enough to split a few ways and still come out swimming in credit chits.

Time was ticking. Ball was in her court. Time to take a chance.

The alien finished his glory speech, his free hand crossing over to depress a button on his wrist comm unit, and Eryn had waited too long. By the time her arm came up to knock the blaster aside, he'd already sent his signal. She tried to knock him back as his blaster went flying, but the Aqualish was prepared, barely moving half a step. He swiped at her, missed as she dodged and thrust her knife into his torso. It was more difficult than it should have been, which meant he'd been wearing some kind of flexible armor. Cheap, probably. Not that it helped him much. She knew she'd hit tissue when his black eyes widened and he staggered back, clutching his middle. It wasn't in the right place, wasn't deep enough for permanent damage, but he was out for the moment. Normally, she'd stick around long enough to make him dead and cover her tracks, but Eryn knew what that button on his wrist unit did. She didn't have time to kill him.

He'd called his friends, and they'd be here any second now.

Ever so slightly, she felt air movement as something dropped from the rooftops to her right. The hair on the back of her very dirty neck stood up.

Scratch that. No seconds left. They were here already.

The Nagai moved towards her, knives out, ghostly skin glowing an eerie shade of blue in the flashing neon lights.
From the street behind Sal Katarn came two others, a towering, heavily armored Epicanthix with a scar running sideways across his face, and a thin, wiry Anzat with war paint on his face and a nasty looking net gun. He moved towards Eryn and the Nagai with slow purpose, maybe to give the Nagai some more time to play with their mark, or maybe he was just a damn good shot and knew this deal was in the bag already.

The Epicanthix brushed past Sal, knocking his shoulder and shooting him a glare. He hefted his massive blaster up to rest on his shoulder, squaring to face Sal with a challenge in his stance. "Hey, beat it, pal. This one's ours, and I don' like a crowd. You wanna watch, do it from 'cross the street."

|- [member="Sal Katarn"] -|

 

[Sal Katarn]

Shouldered from behind, Katarn grunted, eyes narrowing to a squint in the night air. Two street lamps cast them all in a wan light. The third was broken. Corellian red light district at its finest.

Sal ran a tongue along his gums, gaze panning from one hunter to the next as he took a headcount. The wounded Aqualish stood farthest from him, at the opposite end of the alley. Talker, slow reaction time, but angry. Blaster pistol. The Nagai was closer and to his left, a shock of dark hair bristling from his head, as jagged as the knives he held. Katarn noted the way the light reflected off a strange smear at the end of the blades. Close combat expert. Blades coated in venom. Closest stood the goliath of an epicanthix, armored chest to toe in gear pocked with signs of battle. Freakish strength. Heavy weapons. Lastly, the Anzat. The mere sight of whom made Katarn's blood run cold. Supernatural reflexes. Telepathic control. Dangerous.

Against all that Sal had no body armor and a slug thrower with 8 rounds in the mag. Eighty million was a hell of a lot of credits, for good reason, it seemed. The girl was quick with a blade. Pretty too.

He sucked on his teeth, weighed the odds, then gave the encircled girl an apologetic look and a one-shouldered shrug.

Roses were also pretty. Didn't mean he would dive in front of a bull reek to save one.

"Sorry. Not my fight," a brusk voice, callous as old leather.

And just like that, Katarn kept walking. Should have found me twenty years ago. Maybe back then he would have felt like dying for a lost cause. Unlikely. Sal Katarn was many things, a good pilgrim was not one of them. Never had been.

Boots tread lightly on the permacrete street. He moved to one side, passed the Epicanthix.

Still, eighty million was a sight more than Sal had ever seen. He'd killed for a lot less. Maybe they planned on bringing her in alive. Judging from the pleasant company, he doubted it would be in one piece. Anzat tended to only have one thing in mind when they hunted. Unusual to see it working in a group like this, breaking habit. Made it all the more dangerous. Unpredictable.

That was only part of the reason why Katarn didn't want to stick around.

A short screech pricked the night air. A black shape darted from the skies, swooping low to latch onto Katarn's shoulder. The shrike looked around, wings folding. Comfortable on its familiar perch. Sal, for his part, looked unsurprised.

"Hey, what a minute," the Nagai paused. "I think I've seen this guy before."

Sal said nothing, kept walking, lips a thin line.

The cogs turned, clicked into place. A dagger pointed right at him from across the street. "Kriffin' A. You're the Shrike."

A tic twitched at the corner of Katarn's mouth. An amber gaze settled on the Nagai, mirrored by the shrike's avian stare. "Is that right?"

The avian launched from Sal's shoulder at the same moment the drifter's fingers closed around the butt of his .48. A flash of silver whirled past, end over end. Sal leaned back and the dagger passed in front of his chest, missing by a hair's breadth. He finished dragging the pistol from the shoulder holster in a smooth, practiced motion. The slug thrower barked, spit a flash of fire and jerked his arm back with recoil. The Nagai's head exploded, painted the alley wall behind him in a spray of grey matter and bone shards.

Shouts filled the air, followed by the screech of the shrike as it pecked and clawed at the bulbous eyes of the Aqualish, who waved his hands piteously.

Katarn swung the pistol, leveled the hunk of forged iron at the Epicanthix. The report of a heavy blaster came just before the .48 leapt in his hand. A lancet of red plasma chopped into his left shoulder with a wet thud and tore a gaping hole out the back, staggering him. Hurt like hell and sent Sal's shot wide of the mark, slammed into the near-human's armored chest rather than his head, but with enough force to concave the material, crushing bone and sinew beneath with imparted kinetic energy. Another bolt from the repeater tore a ragged chunk of flesh away from Katarn's outer thigh and sat him on his knees.

Scarlet ichor drained away from Sal, down the front of his shirt and drenching the thirsty ground. A sagging oath peeled off Sal's lips just before a third neon spear punched the street at his feet, kicked up a spray of duracrete and sparks. The Epicanthix was stumbling backward, mouth open like a floundering fish as he struggled to breath.

[member="Eryn"]

 

[Eryn]

She was moving, fast. Never waste an opportunity, and this? This was a damn good one.

Leaving the flailing Aqualish to the tailring (for now), Eryn swiped the discarded blaster from the ground, plucking a third dagger from the dead Nagai's belt which she tucked into her own, careful not to poke herself with the end. Wheeling around, she took aim, fired at the head of the Epicanthix, and missed. Glowering at her lack of ranged skills (too much time so up-close-and-personal; time to start practicing with a blaster), the fugitive sprinted towards him. Distracted by his inability to breathe, the mercenary's shots whizzed past as he tried to turn fast enough to get a decent shot, gurgling, face red. She'd planned to down him with a sharp kick to the middle, but her speed left that option on the sidelines.

Blaster in hand, Eryn pounced like a nexu, gripping the collar of his thick armor, using his still smoking chest as a saddle as she rode him to the ground. He landed hard on his back, wheezing, bringing his weapon to bear on the small female atop him, but he was too late. Eryn had the tip of the blaster jammed under his chin. His eyes were wide, raking over her face with shock and anger, but Eryn wasn't watching. She pulled the trigger as she looked back at the Aqualish, her long grimy hair blanketing the Epicanthix's face as the world went cold for him.

But she wasn't the only one determined not to waste the opportunity. The Anzat seemed of the same mind.

He met her gaze as she rolled off the Epicanthix and dashed back towards the Aqualish in the alley, and the young Anzat had a choice to make. He had two shots on his net gun before he had to reload. It was an older model, he was still new to this business and hadn't enough credits to upgrade, but it did the job well enough. Two shots, one target… or maybe not. He shifted, teeth bared as se set his sights on the bleeding man on his knees in the street. What had the Nagai said before he'd dropped? The..Shrike? It sounded familiar. Maybe he was worth something. Not that he'd need the credits after he turned the girl in solo. Speaking of her…

He cast his gaze over his shoulder, lip curling in irritation as he spotted her quickly climbing her way up to the roof. The Anzat leveled the net gun at The Shrike as he backed away, pulling the trigger. The netting sprang from the weapon and flew at Sal, entrapping him tightly. Eryn was barely halfway up the wall when the Anzat paused outside the alley, took careful aim, and with a delighted smirk, let loose his second net. He was close, and she couldn't climb fast enough to avoid it. Eighty million danced in his vision.

Except that Eryn had been carefully listening for the sharp, distinctive releasing snap of the net gun, and as the sound cracked through the air and bounced around the alley walls, she pulled the Nagai's dagger from her belt… and let go of the pipes.

She could feel the rush of air as the net hit the piping where she'd been just seconds ago. It spread out over the wall, sticking like a spider web as she dropped to the ground, her Sorrusian skeleton bending with her on impact. She didn't pause to appreciate the look on the Anzat's face. A quick roll to her feet, and Eryn let loose the Nagai's dagger with a sharp throw. He was close enough for a hit. She was hoping for the neck.

It buried itself in his gut.
Close enough.

He dropped the net gun, fingers wrapping around the dagger as he pulled it from his torso, the paint around his eyes and mouth pulling and cracking at the pained contortions warping his face. The wound wouldn't kill him, but the venom on the blade would knock him out in about thirty seconds, although his natural regeneration abilities would flush it from his body shortly after. Apparently, the female wasn't aware of this, because she was stalking towards him with another knife and a blank look in her eyes. The Anzat knew that look. He'd seen it on others before they'd killed for survival. No pleasure in it for them. Such a waste. They didn't know what they were missing.

He could feel darkness closing in as she neared, the pull of her lifeforce and the burn of his anger driving him forward with the Nagai's dagger, ready to slash. Eryn got there first, her blade drawing swiftly across his raised arm. He dropped the dagger with a hiss, grabbing her by the hair as she went for his throat. He gripped her wrist, his fingers slick with blood, pulling her weapon away from him and drawing her face close to his. He latched his gaze with hers, hastily reaching for control of her mind, his proboscises unfurling from his cheeks and probing at her face in anticipation. But his joy at her wide eyes and spellbound expression was short lived; his control was slipping as his consciousness faded, and as his hand slid from her hair and loosened from her wrist, he watched her blink away his hypnosis, saw her upper lip curl in disgust, felt her reach up and grab his proboscises as paralyses rolled through his limbs.

A sharp tug on the fleshy tendrils, and Eryn brought her knife down, severing them from the Anzat's face. He couldn't even scream, sinking to the ground in a heap and laying still as a stone as the venom took its toll. Figuring he'd be down for hours, she cast a glance at the Aqualish, who was laying curled in a ball, trying to avoid the tailrings assault. "Hey!!" She yelled, raising her 'borrowed' blaster at the scene. Eryn gave the flying creature a hard look, gesturing with the weapon. "Beat it, I got this. Go on!" If it moved, she'd fire three shots into the cowering alien. If it didn't move, well, she hoped her aim was better than last time 'cause she was firing all the same.

But her real problem was a few paces behind her, encased in a net in the middle of the street. Eryn took a quick look around, eyeing the shadows, but no one else was watching, no one came running…yet. Didn't mean they wouldn't eventually. Any other day she'd have run for the hills by now, but if she was tying up loose ends, she wanted all of them tied.

Blaster in one hand, knife in the other, the fugitive approached 'The Shrike', lips parted, sweat glistening on her forehead, hair hanging in her face. She circled around until she found his face under the net and raised the blaster, taking aim at his head. "How much of what they said did you hear?"


|- [member="Sal Katarn"] -|

 

[Sal Katarn]

Hard pavement grew wet beneath Katarn's back. That'd be my blood, he thought, in between waves of pain. Wisps of lingering smoke curled from the holes in his perforated body. Would've been a sorry sight, even without the damn net wrapped 'round him tighter than a hog-tied bantha calf.

He strained against the bonds, but only succeeded in adding rope burn to his list of injuries. He gave up when he noticed the gun pointed at his head. Katarn sighed, muscles slumping, eyes closing.

"Hm," he grunted. Seemed to sum up his opinion of the circumstances pretty well. Just bad luck that he got recognized, that was all. Shoulda let the Nagai go. Nobody gave a damn about the Shrike anymore. Nobody but the Tribe.

He sucked in a breath and craned his neck up, amber eyes narrowed to slits.

"Enough," the word clawed its way out of his scarred throat in a guttural rasp. Sal had learned to live with the pain of speech years ago. Just talked less. Probably better for everyone involved.

Didn't much matter what he said now. Smart bet would be to kill him and run. It's what I would do.

The sudden sound of familiar sublight engines roared overhead. A crooked half-smile limped up Sal's face. The Shrike wouldn't be dying in a puddle of his own blood just yet.

Slave circuits. Hm. Good investment.

Sal jerked his head up in the direction of the craft now hovering over them. A long, thin craft whose wide wings and overlarge engines spoke more to heavy courier than patrol ship. On its side the name Outremer was printed in galactic basic.

"My ride."

The Tailring came to rest beside Sal's head in a flutter of leathery wings. Their eyes locked and for a moment Sal's grew glassy, distant, then the small beast opened its tiny maw and tore at the netting with sharp teeth. The rope burst and Sal scrambled weakly from the bindings. Maybe the girl would shoot him. Maybe she wouldn't.

In the distance, more engines could be heard drawing nearer. Dark specks on the horizon. Sal grunted, trying to stand, ignoring the spreading crimson stain on his shirt and the jagged holes in his body. He pressed a button on a wristband.

The Outremer dipped down and the ramp to the cargo bay lowered.

Katarn, staggered past [member="Eryn"], toward the ship. "Coming?"

 

[Eryn]

With an unforgiving expression and a distrusting eye, Eryn stood by the pile of tattered rope and tracked the 'Shrike' at blaster point all the way up the ramp, his offer hanging in the widening space between them.

Decisions, decisions. She could hear the faint hum of engines, she knew this whole place would be crawling with people she had no desire to tangle with, and there was no way she'd make it far enough on foot to avoid that in time. And here was this guy. This random person, caught in the crossfire, knowing more than enough about her to draw some conclusions and now he was giving her a way out? Insta-suspicion. Maybe he'd set this whole thing up to begin with, the hunter goons, taking a bolt or two, getting 'caught' in the net. Maybe it was all an elaborate trap to lure her aboard and cash in on her bounty. Maybe the Shrike and his flying rat thing were the true masterminds.

Or maybe he really was just a guy caught in the middle.
…But probably not. Probably he was all kinds of out-to-get-her. Everyone was. There were no good Samaritans. There were no 'good' people. All bad. All stabbed you in the back eventually.
(Kark. The things betrayal of trust does to someone's point-of-view…)

Eryn scrutinized his slowly disappearing back, the blood, the wounds... She'd (well, they'd) left a decent body count behind, something she hadn't done in a long time, and she was still debating pulling the trigger, tying up that loose end and making off with the ship (which was fine as hell, by the way) when life made the decision for her.

Blaster fire spattered across the landing ramp as a group of what Eryn could only assume were friends of the bodies lying in the street charged up the broken road, a bolt or two finding the flesh of the Shrike's left leg. She didn't pause to aim, leaping aboard as she fired wildly at them, dodging red and blue bolts. Not well enough, apparently. They burned through her jacket and her pants more than once, but there was no time to assess the damage. A vessel skirted the corner of a building beyond, screaming mechanically as it made a beeline for them. Eryn half shoved, half dragged the man the rest of the way up the ramp, adrenaline surging, giving her precious pain-free time to do what she needed to do to get out of the line of fire. No sooner did the ramp shut, the scorching holes in her arm, side, and upper thigh took over with a vengeance, crippling her momentarily.

Eryn clenched her jaw against the searing, breath caught in her throat, knuckles white as she dropped the Shrike and clung to the bulkhead.
She hadn't been shot in a long time, either. First the bodies, now this. That's two streaks of 'luck' broken in one hour. Had she the wherewithal, she'd have sent the bloodied man a glare. "Get—" The word came out in a pained gasp. She shook her head, cleared her throat, and tried again. "Get us outta here!"

|- [member="Sal Katarn"] -|

 

[Sal Katarn]

The ramp sealed shut with a hiss of hydraulics. Silence now, but for Ka's screeching and the ragged breaths sawing in and out of Sal's lungs.

He staggered forward, nerves shooting hot and searing agony with every step. A shaking finger reached up, tapped a command button on his wrist pad. The ship lurched up and g-forces pressed against him as he stagger/limp/fell his way toward the cockpit. He collapsed in the pilot's seat, ignoring the girl for now. They'd all be dead unless they slipped the system. Outside the cockpit, blue skies faded to black.

Sal grasped the controls, pushing and pulling levers, punching buttons and typing coordinates. Bright pinpricks of distant stars elongated until the craft jumped, engulfed in the blue whorl of hyperspace. He leaned back and closed his eyes, let out a ragged sigh.

Silence again, though never truly.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The pitter-patter of blood from his fingertips, a leaking faucet over a crimson puddle. Red rivulets streamed from his shoulder, from his legs, soaking both shirt and pants in growing, sticky stains.

A flutter of leathery wings announced Ka's arrival on the arm of the chair. Sal opened his eyes slowly, wanting only to rest. He met the reptavian's stare, then looked at the wound in his leg. Restless fingers tugged at a scrap of fabric, peeling it away from the oozing mess where a chunk of his flesh had been torn off.

"Should've just let you die," he rasped.

He watched the wound for a bit more, noting how swiftly the blood coagulated. A few hours and it would scab over. Sal shoed Ka away, gripped the arms of the chair and pushed himself up.

"Didn't though."

Hobbling, Katarn started to make his way toward the refresher and nearly slipped in a puddle of his own blood. He grunted, steadying himself against the plain bulkhead, which was a militantly bare gray, just like nearly everything else in the ship.

"Bacta packs in the fridge," Sal pointed without looking. "Don't break anything."

He disappeared into another compartment of the ship, leaving a streak of blood on the bulkhead behind him.

[member="Eryn"]